Libellus! (Little Book)

I think of friends in terms of color groups.
                                                                    

                                                                                           I assume the flies have settled.

I am in Paris. I get off the plane and get my bags, wandering through the maze that is the Charles De Gaulle airport, eyes wide, mind hazy from the eight hour plane ride. I wander onto the right bus, somehow, fumbling through awkward conversations with irritated French airport workers. On the bus, I meet a woman and we have a wonderful conversation. I am filled with adrenaline. The last time she was in Paris, years and years ago, she was a nanny too. She is coming back to meet with a lover, someone she left behind all those years ago. I am open and friendly, and tell her that I believe our conversation together is a good omen for the beginning of my year there.

The first time I am really aware of Paris is when the bus is roaring up the Champs Elysees. The city appears dirty – the streets are lined with trash, the sidewalks crammed with people, and there seem to be no agreed-upon rules of the road. Cars cut corners, eschew turn signals, ignore speed limits and pedestrians. I am amazed that the bus driver can navigate the chaotic traffic circle around the Arc de Triomphe – I am more amazed at this than I am at the monument itself. I am blown away by the sheer size of Paris, and unable to wrap my mind around the fact that I am going to be living here for the next year of my life. This is Paris. Besides the trash, the city is truly breathtakingly beautiful – I spot the Eiffel tower and the Pantheon, and everywhere the buildings are made of white stone. Some of the cafes and shops looks straight out of Les Miserables. I am thrilled and terrified.

The first task, after getting off the bus, is finding a cab driver. The friendly bus driver (a cruel joke, having the first Parisian I meet be friendly; this does not prepare me well) points me in the right direction, right across the street. I drag my luggage across the crosswalk, tickled by the little green man in the crossing signal. I find a cab and the driver silently and unceremoniously throws my suitcases in the trunk as I climb in the backseat and wait for him. He gets in the driver’s seat. Staring in the rear view mirror at me, he says something in French that, by sheer guesswork, I take to mean “Where are you going?”

I say, naively, “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

The driver rolls his eyes and says “Non, non. Leetle bit, eh? Leetle,” and indicates with his thumb and index finger the amount of extent of his English vocabulary.

Oh, shit.

How on God’s green earth could I have assumed that I could get around in this behemoth of a city without being able to speak fluent French?  I try as best I can to pronounce the address I was given, which means I have to say the number eighty-eight in French, which any beginning French student can tell you is no easy task. The actual word is quatre-vingt- huit, meaning literally “four-twenty-eight”. Four twenties makes eighty, get it? Plus eight, equals eighty-eight. The French are horrible.

At first, the driver doesn’t understand my words. I shove the paper in his face, he reads it, says “Ah,” and drives the car into the melee. I hang on for dear life as the taxi nearly careens into a Smartcar entering the traffic circle. On the way there I lose track of the amount of times I almost die. We manage a few tidbits of very awkward conversation conducted in Frenglish. I learn that the driver is not a native Parisian – he’s not even from France. He and his family moved here many years ago from a country I do not remember, but it was one in which the people were rough and living in poverty.

We finally reach the apartment. He tells me it is across the street. I am not prepared for the glamour of the lobby when I enter it. The floors appear to be made of dyed marble. The heavy glass doors have golden handles. I stumble across the floor, catching a glimpse of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, looking very American indeed with my tousled hair, bright red St. Mary’s Academy Class of 2003 sweatshirt, worn jeans, flip-flops, and giant suitcases dragging behind me. There are no signs anywhere, just a small booth office-type place where a friendly-looking man sits staring at me inquisitively. I slowly make my way over to him.

“Tisserand?” I say haltingly. “La famille Tisserand?”
“Ah oui!,” he says, “La sixieme. Ils sont la.”

I have no idea what this means. He understands that I have no idea what this means. I feel angry and frustrated that I do not understand what this means.

“Sixieme,” he repeats slowly, holding up six fingers. “L’ascenseur est a la droite. L’ascenseur,” he says, walking out of his office and pointing around the corner to the right.
“Okay,” I say, smiling. “Merci!”

I find the elevator. Sixth floor, I’m sure that’s what he meant. I take the elevator, impossibly small though it is, to the sixth floor. I get off and there in front of me is a large wooden door with the right number on it and a small button, above which is embossed the name Tisserand on a brass plaque. I am scared. I am about to meet the children that I will be with for the next year. The hallway is very small – there are only two doors, two elevators and a staircase. I press my ear up to the cold wood and hear nothing inside. The building is impeccably clean. I just stand outside the doorway for a good two minutes, not really wanting to ring the doorbell. I listen to the sounds echoing up from the lobby. A small dog yipping, and a low male voice murmuring something in French.

I have resolve. I must ring this doorbell. I have no choice. I have nowhere else to go, no other options. I press my finger to the button and hear a chime just inside the door. A soft bark erupts from inside the apartment, and I hear little dog feet clattering across a floor, followed by the louder thuds of human footsteps. The footsteps arrive at the door, and then stop. There is a slight pause. I realize I am being observed through the spyglass in the door. And then the door opens. My eyes meet those of a young, striking boy of about thirteen. His eyes are a bright, sparkling green lined with long, dark lashes. His hair is black and spiked up fashionably. He is more fashionably dressed than I ever will be, in clothes that can only be either Ralph Lauren or something of the sort.

“Hello!” he barks, his voice cracking with prepubescent force.

“Hi there!” I say, overly friendly. “I’m Blythe. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Yes, yes, come in, come in. I am Adrien. Let me take your things.” His heavy French accent is charming. To God, I think: You must be kidding. This is going to be my life? I can’t believe it. I was delighted.

He leads me into what seems to be a hotel penthouse, or is at least decorated as such. The entrance hall floors are checkered marble. On a small hall table is an miniature model of a wooden sailing ship that looks to be worth thousands of dollars. I turn around and am again confronted with a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Adrien indicates that I must take off my shoes. I do so, and put them by the hall table, on the floor. I follow him down the hall and to the left, where we set my bags down inside a large bedroom that I can tell belongs to his parents. The room is immaculate and very tastefully decorated. The carpet matches the curtains which match the bedspread which match the lampshade, and so on. On the walls are hung original works of art, which of course match the color scheme of the room. There is a small television on the dresser. It looks as though the room was cleaned thirty seconds before I walked into it.

Adrien then leads me across the hall and to a different room, where a small boy is stretched out on the floor in front of an episode of some Japanese cartoon that has been dubbed over into French.

“Romain!” bellows Adrien. The little boy turns around, takes me in, and scrambles to his feet. He comes over and shakes my hand. Romain is ten years old and has piercing, hawk-like blue eyes. He stares at me and I can feel him sizing me up. His cheeks are flushed with health, and he, too, is clothed in the latest fashions. He is one of the most beautiful children I’ve ever met. After shaking my hand, he loses interest in me and again stretches out on the floor.

“Are you ‘ungry?” asks Adrien tentatively.

“Yes, actually I am,” I say, still in happy introductions mode. Adrien leads me to the kitchen and commands his brother to follow. As I am asked to sit, I begin to feel a bit like a new pet. I do not feel in control of the situation at all, regardless of the age difference between myself and these boys. I feel like an intruder, like an awkward guest. Romain and Adrien appeared old enough to take care of themselves; that was certainly what they had been doing when I arrived at the door.

Trajectory:

(After the break – after the break – afterwards)

after

words

after

the

fall

after

falling from a great height.

(“If you make success in a social environment, you should be dominant because you’re better There’s a reason why you’re in poverty because you’re supposed to be there)

(“Something I found interesting about this commercial strange vibe you want to find nit take time to be a Dad interesting. The tactics you use. That’s what contributes to the power of it.)

Oh

no -

don’t lose

your

ink -

or your

mind.

(more than just competition)

(The form of the presentation, undisputed within a narrow context of)

unworthy peons

The proletariat beckons, awaits your yawning mouths, underpins your riding whip underneath the belly of the horse which you shouldn’t gallop wallop bullwhip him into submission un-dom ungdom masters unflinching unwillingly riding you down fully into the future like an undecided piece of meat! Come back to us, father – come bend us in the snow come stilt your candle towards the whole Self wisdom

(you saw a neighbor looking over, wondering – what’s going on here?)

(it’s consistent with gender ideology)

(a public service announcement telling you how to live – who pays for these public announcements? An organization – might be something of interest to you later on, perhaps – in movies – they’re trying to counteract a trend – it’s very pedagogical – one final comment.)

A CHAaaaaNGE IN IDeO-o-o-Logy?